The Underworld eBook

“No, you are my sweetheart,” he cried,
discretion all gone now in his eager furtherance of
his pleading. “I want you—­only
you, Mysie,” and he caught her in his arms in
a strong burst of desire for her. “Mine,
Mysie, mine!” he cried, his lips upon hers and
hers responding now, his hot eyes greedily devouring
her as he held her there in his strong young arms.
“Say, Mysie, that you are mine, that I am yours,
body and soul belonging to each other,” and
so he raved on in eager burning language, which was
the sweetest music in Mysie’s ears.

His arms about her, he made her sit down, she still
unresisting and flattered by his words, he fondling
and kissing her, his hands caressing her face, her
ears, her hair, her neck, his head sometimes resting
upon her breast.

Maddened and scorched by the passion raging within
him, lured by the magic of the night, and impelled
by the invitation of the sweet dewy lips that seemed
to cry for kisses, he strained her to his breast.

He praised her eyes, her hair, her voice, whilst he
poured kisses upon her, his fire kindling her whole
being into response.

Then a thick cloud came over the face of the moon,
darkening the dell, blotting out the silvery patterns
on the ground, chasing the light shadows into dark
corners; and a far-off protest of a whaup shouting
to the hills was heard in a shriller and more anxious
note that had something of alarm in it; the burn seemed
to bicker more loudly in its anxiety to hurry on out
into the open moor; and the scents and perfumes of
the wood sank into pale ghosts of far-off memories.

When passion, red-eyed and fierce for conquest, had
driven innocence from the throne of virtue the guardian
angels wept; and all their tears, however bitter,
could not obliterate the stains which marked the progress
of destruction.

At the end of the copse, when Mysie and Peter emerged,
they neither spoke nor laughed. There was shame
in their downcast faces, and their feet dragged heavily.
His arm no longer encircled her waist, he did not
now praise her eyes, her hair, her figure. Lonely
each felt, afraid to look up, as if something walked
between them. And far away the whaup wheepled
in protest, the burn still grumbled, and the perfumes,
and the sounds of the glen and all its beauty were
as if they had never existed, and the thick cloud
grew blacker over the face of the moon.

CHAPTER XIV

THE AWAKENING

Night after night for a week afterwards, Mysie lay
awake till far on into the morning. She seemed
to be face to face with life’s realities at
last. The silly, shallow love stories held no
fascination for her. The love affairs of “Jean
the Mill Girl” could not rouse her interest.
Often she cried for hours, till exhaustion brought
sleep, troubled and unrefreshing.

She grew silent and avoided company. She sang
no more at her work, and she avoided Peter, and kept
out of his way. She often compared Robert with
him now, and loved to let her mind linger on that one
mad moment of delirious joy a year ago, when he had
crushed her to his breast, and cried to her to be
his. Thus womanhood dawned for her, and its great
responsibilities frightened her.